


A State of Hope

by caitfair24



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-06-28 06:02:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19806220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitfair24/pseuds/caitfair24
Summary: An unconventional love story blooms in the quiet tumult of post-war Brooklyn, as Bucky fulfills a desperate promise made in his darkest moment.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr as my submission for @barnesrogersvstheworld's 4K Followers Challenge. My prompt was: "I'll be there, too / Then count me in."

A half-swallowed smile, and an answering flutter in your stomach. You’d never thought you’d have cause to call a man _pretty_ , but there remains something of the boy about this blue-eyed sergeant. Innocence pressed into the smooth, clear lines of his face, the dainty stroking of a few strands of hair against his forehead. He practically kisses the bottle at his lips, gaze sliding from yours as your stammered “ _Happy birthday”_ crawls its way onto the air. 

Clunky, out-of-tune piano keys; chatter swells and a raucous cheer from the bar. The sounds of a Friday night reclaimed from the tattered dregs of another wartime winter. Spring has come early but damp, soaking into your bones and making this evening – an evening of thin ale and thinner joy – a rare snatch at something close to real warmth. 

“Thanks, doll.” The word feels like silk, but tastes like what you remember of sweets. It’s not an entirely special word, not for you – you’ve heard Barnes toss it out kindly to a dozen other girls before. A little Americanism to earn soft smiles – but it works on you every time. 

Fingers tremble around the curve of an empty cider glass, and you know it’s obvious – of course it is. Handsome soldier, smoky pub, the faint strains of Bing Crosby in the background. If the dress wasn’t so scratchy and tight about your neck, if your shoes didn’t pinch so, you’d almost think of dancing. There’s a rhythm to his movements, this sergeant with his heavy smile, his glacier-gaze. Hair lush with the promise of a curl – his every action seems to draw your eye. Everyone’s, really. 

Red-lipsticked women with pretty dresses and toes tapping against the floorboards, cheap gin and diluted perfume – they watch him, too. The whole round table, really. Motley crew of international soldiers, the ones that creep to the Continent at the oddest of times, come back with shadows in their eyes and stiff laughter. As though they’re trying very hard to convince themselves there’s still something to laugh about. 

A girl in blue steps up to him – curls one hand about Barnes’ shoulder and your belly drops, twisting on the way down. Pretty eyes and hands tipped with pink nails – not the scratch, the stain, the tired lines of your own hands, scrubbing the glasses now. Simmering in soap and a sickly wobble somewhere deep inside. 

She’s _lovely_. A peaches and cream kind of beauty, and Sergeant Barnes relaxes into her touch. Smiles up and chats away. 

You wait. Wait for the tingle of a dancing song on the air, something with the rhythm of romance, a tune to fall in love to. Wait to see that blue dress swing and stutter through the air. 

“ _I’m falling high but I’ve got a feeling I’m falling, falling for nobody but you,”_ croons the gramophone earnestly – music trying its best to paint love stories against a backdrop of tired soldiers and ration-hungry souls. 

Behind the bar, you move and twist in your own dance. Anything to ignore that little trickle of something sad. 

“Here, sweetheart.” 

Another endearment, this time a little louder, fighting to be swim over the _thump_ and bounce of this latest song. Barnes’ hair flops into his eyes as he heaves the four glasses onto the bartop, grin tugging at his lips at your gentle surprise. 

_Sweetheart_. 

The blue-dress girl is in Private Jones’ arms now, giggling as he sings along. But there’s no envy in Barnes’ eyes as he follows the track of your gaze, nudges your wrist with one finger. 

Leaving sparks in his wake. 

“I’m not much for dancing these days,” he says softly. A jolt at his confession, the plaintive honesty in his tone, and your wrist jerks away. Not because the warm trace of his touch is anything short of wonderful – but he looks away. Tucks the smile back. Taps the bar with his left hand. 

Someone croons out from the piano, voice gone sloppy with drink, and the whole scene of it – the full thrust of this moment – a young man wearing ragged cheer, in a city scraped raw by war – oh, you could cry. 

A pull to make him happy; an instinct reluctant to be quashed. And his knuckle is warm and scarred under your finger, a tentative touch, featherlight in its small courage. “But it’s your birthday,” you say, hoping you haven’t overstepped, trying to remember the landlord’s stern words about interacting with punters. 

_Don’t stay at one table too long. Don’t flirt. Don’t dance._

_Don’t touch_. 

“Twenty-seven.” A kind of hollow ache to the words, and his eyes dim around the edges. “Doesn’t…this isn’t exactly…” 

Barnes swallows. Tastes his own pain, and you can, too. Wish there wasn’t this gleaming slab of mahogany between you – wish he knew more than your first name. Wish you knew _his_. 

You chew at your lip, debating only half-a-second: “If you were…if you were _home_ , what would you be doing?” 

His smile spills quick and pretty. _Chocolate cake,_ he says.Dessert first, and hair mussed. Cheeks peppered with his mother’s lipstick kisses, as she laments, for the eleventh year in a row, that he’s had to shave. Remembers when his cheeks were summer-smooth.

“My sister, she’d probably put on a record,” Barnes explaining, sliding onto the barstool and leaning closer. “Steve would come over, and then maybe we’d all go to the movies – sorry, to the pictures,” he adds, nodding at you. 

He paints a nice picture, of course he does – and gosh, he smells of Castile and Dial, inching ever closer until you realize you’ve been sliding closer, chin resting in your hand as Barnes brings you to Brooklyn, New York. A film, really – all sunshine sidewalks and burnished joy, the tang of home bright on the air. 

So enraptured are you, so caught and tangled in the heady little bliss of Sergeant Barnes’ voice – you fail to hear Tom behind you. He calls your name, again, sharper this time, a shard of glass and it stings. 

“These tables ain’t going t’clean themselves,” he spits, and Barnes springs back, concern his eyes. “Don’t pay you to moon, love.” 

Tom’s more bark than bite, you know. But the bark sets Barnes’ shoulders on edge, a hard glint to his eyes as he looks at you. That warm little bubble of time and Brooklyn melts against your skin, and you can’t help but smile. Glance over at the blue-dress girl kissing Jones on the cheek and savour the light leap of something sweeter in your belly. 

Something bound up in blue eyes and a gentle touch. “It’s all right,” you murmur, reaching for the sopping rag. “Go on back to your friends.”

A chivvy and a smile. He levels another glare at Tom, who doesn’t even notice. No time for Yanks, that’s his motto – but you? You’ll make time. 

Time enough to creep into the kitchen under pretence of looking for another cloth. Time enough to quell the guilt of theft and sneak the biscuit out in your pocket. A moment to press against Sergeant Barnes as you wipe down their table, as he shoves his arms through the sleeves of a thick blue coat – as he runs one hand through his hair and you give him a goodbye with a stolen touch of rationed chocolate – nothing like his mother’s cake, but it’ll have to do. 

His lips feel right against your cheek. 

* * *

March drags her feet. Cold days and wet days, an occasional whiff of proper spring, but not this morning. This one hangs heavy, but not quite as heavy as the half-remembered dream – weeks old now – of a blue dress of your own, loose and merry about your knees. Two warm hands at your waist and chocolate kisses. 

But there’s work to be done, and Tom was right – you’re not paid to moon. During the day, you’re paid to clean. Hair scraped back and sleeves tugged high, no lingering kiss of perfume on your wrists – days smell of lye and polish, ammonia that you’re sure clings to your body in the evenings. A twist of rosemary, from the kitchen; sour cabbage and stale sweat, and now, on your knees in the back room, scrubbing stone floors undaunted by just another war – you think of Sergeant Barnes. 

Sad and spent, but smelling of mint and clean. World falling to pieces about him, and a valiant little smile for you. His touch ghosts across your skin now, where your knuckles have swollen with the water, split where you’ve knocked them against a particularly-spiteful flagstone. 

You don’t even own a dancing dress. 

A bath before the pub – cold water and a scrawny bar of rather indolent soap. You stroke against protesting muscles and try and rub the day from your skin, wondering, again, if he’ll come. He and the others – his _squad_ , you think, with a kind of awed, civilian delight – haven’t been back since the night of his birthday, weeks ago now. War news creeps in dark and mean, scowling at the fragile moments of lightness. A friend’s wedding, all bunched taffeta and knowing smirks. 

An ice lolly. 

Sergeant Barnes’ eyes and the memory of his voice. 

It’s a black dress again, a black dress and dimming hopes, shoes from the charity shop and a bite of bully beef spread on toast before your shift begins. 

Evenings, as a rule, unfold in a series of rituals at the Whip & Fiddle. The usual punters tend to trickle in at much the same time each day – allowing for customized, knee-jerk greetings. But you let Tom handle that – “ _All right, Jim?”_ and “ _Evenin’, fellow”_ – preferring to go about your tasks, be they barmaid’s or busser’s, with a mild, polite detachment. A distant affection for the regulars. It’s safer that way, easier. 

This old black dress and a faded smile, collar tight and high about your neck so as not to suggest any overfriendliness. No lipstick, Tom’s advised, and because he’s the landlord, and because he got his three daughters through their rounds here safe and sound, you listen. “Just blend in,” he says kindly. “It’s easy enough.” 

There’s always been a little pain in his confidence, more still in the reality. Even in a sea of khaki and patriotism, a world gone desperate and drunk on the slim promise of peace in some far-off headline not yet written – you blend in. The girl behind the bar, the girl rolling out another barrel; the girl wiping tables and laughing politely at threadbare jokes. The girl against the background. 

Except to them. To _him._

Only a few sit at the round table tonight. Eyes hooded and shoulders hunched as you peer over Sergeant Dugan’s shoulder to catch a glimpse. “What’ll it be?” you ask quietly, gently. So as not to startle him back from wherever his long stare has taken him. 

“Huh?” 

“What’ll it be, Sergeant?” 

Ghosts in his eyes; an echo of something bad. Dugan shudders it all away with a warm, broad smile, dipped in rue. Places his usual order for a full round, this time without Barnes’ ale, Jones’ bottle of beer. 

Smoke curls into a grey haze as you pull the first draught, stomach flipping in anticipation, in an unaired question. _Where is he? The private, too? And that golden-haired captain, the one from the newsreels?_

A night soaked in thin ale and feigned intoxication – you’re used to the sounds of men remembering what it is to be well and truly drunk. Curiosity makes for courage, and, as you arrange the tray and steal another cursory glance at the squad’s preferred table – no, Barnes still hasn’t arrived. 

The question, however, dies on your lips as Dugan turns. What real claim, you think furiously, fighting a rise of heat to your face, do you have on Sergeant Barnes? A few tender conversations, a fanning of admiration in your stomach. Nothing near strong enough to pin a hope on, let alone a request for news. 

In a crush of busyness, of a city looking for distraction, the evening melts away. Small tasks keep you moving – scrubbing, washing, serving, smiling – until the crowd thins, quiets. Lonelier drinkers move in, and the merry go home. Not enough room for sorrow and joy at the same table. 

Tom banks the fire, says something about checking the barrels. It’s his code for a cheeky half, a cheeky half turned into two, and a peck at his wife before she turns in. There’s little real work to do this time of night, but wiping careful circles onto the bar lends an illusion of industry, and keeps the dust away. 

Truly, it’s almost a hypnotizing job, lulling you into a near-dreamy state. The fire’s warm, the talk low. No drink in your veins but sleep hasn’t come easy, not lately, and it would be so nice to just –

“Hi.” 

Hair damp and lazy against his forehead, hands shaking as he pushes back his bangs. He looks nothing like the first night, near Christmas, all soft with relief and reunion. 

There’s little of the boy about him now. 

Sergeant Barnes chooses a stool, musters a tremulous smile, one that sends a cool wash of relief down your spine and – contrarily – heat to your cheeks. Even sad and lonesome, sinking into his own frame, he’s handsome. Special. 

A delicate, gossamer-bond – you to him, and him to you. Something that drew you both again and again into quiet conversation. Endearments that echo prettily in your ears for days afterwards. 

You serve him now by memory, a pretty collision of a short history. Just a few nights a week; some weeks not seeing him at all. There are missions, meetings, evenings when he and the golden captain would come and huddle in a corner, sipping gin and stifled conviviality. He’s worn that blue jacket, his dress uniform. Hair slicked and styled; lush and coiffed. Smile bright, and face wan. 

And in those images, in the trembling interactions, belly flipping and blood warming at the sound and sight of him. Weeks of “ _sweethearts_ ,” and “ _honeys_ ” and “ _dolls_ ,” sugar-sweet affection traded along the slim lines of this Friday-night friendship, this drink-soaked camaraderie. 

But you’ve never seen him like this, and yet, you feel a greater tug. A yearning, a desire to step around the bar and offer him something more than a weak drink and a shaky little brush of fingertips. There’s no real room for that, though, not between the two of you. 

You don’t even know his first name. How could there possible be anything more? 

Shirt unbuttoned, gaping about his collar; the slightest peek at a dusting of chest hair. Barnes reaches to run one hand through his hair, makes some comment about the rain – and you quip that he sounds like a true Londoner. 

And he smiles. 

A brief sunrise on his face, gone too soon, and he takes a sip. You do your best to avoid watching the movement of his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple and a faint lick at his lips. 

“How’ve you been, darlin’?” 

With that, it’s back to business. Back to the familiar. You chat about the wedding, the awful taste of corned beef. He tells you about headquarters, wherever they are, and the terrible coffee he’s forced to drink there. It seems that tonight, Barnes wants to linger near the surface, tread water with you in the realm of normalcy. 

Twenty minutes slip by, dance away on a cloud of cigarette smoke and a foolish joke from a regular, who slings his arm around Barnes’ shoulders and calls him friend – asks about France, about Germany, about cathedrals ripped open and fields gone to ash. 

His hands tremble around the glass. Words trip and stumble, terse and wavering all at once. 

You shoo the other man away, and bring Barnes a cup of tea, though he hasn’t asked for it. Swallow hard at the flex of muscle in his arms when he pushes his sleeves back, all lean form and corded hands. A glance down at the soft, light hair on his arms and your mouth goes absolutely dry.

“Uh, hey – can I ask you something?” Barnes’ voice is feather-soft, a warm reprieve from harsher, slurring sounds. There’s no demand to his tone, no insistence, merely – is that… _curiosity_? 

You drop the cloth back into the sink, wipe your hands down the front of your apron. Lean close and hope you don’t still smell of cleaning. “Of course, Sergeant,” you say, steady but shy. “Anything else you need?”

He looks around, taking in the scene. A couple of men slumped over the tables, lost in their cups; the empty, mournful sound of a record spinning with no listeners. When he turns to you again, his eyes are gleaming. Bites his bottom lip, clears his throat. As though swallowing whatever has made his gaze shine so – “You, uh, you work another job, don’t you? Not just here?”

_Scrub buckets and knees gone raw on stone and linoleum. Strain in your lower back, bright as a nightmare and just as sharp._

But what else are you to do? Survival depends on sacrifice, doesn’t it? A hungry belly and sore limbs; Tom’s sniping and a scrawny rations book. Dreams flickering to dust in your own mind. 

You nod, explain about the cleaning job, the rota that keeps you pounding the sidewalk outside, up and down the street, in sitting rooms and dentists’ offices, the back of that dress shop. The church. 

“And where do you live?” Barnes asks, and his voice breaks. Scratches against the press of some emotion, and his eyes are shining again. Just enough that he has to bring up a hand, swipe as inconspicuously as he can underneath. 

But you’ve seen; and he knows you have. 

“A boardinghouse, just down the way.” It’s gentle, kind. A deliberate softening of bare walls and a thin mattress; the suspicious glares of Mrs Lester. Reminders about clutter and curfew and that your life doesn’t belong to you, not really. Not enough, at least. 

“Family?” 

Silence stings you both. Cuts sharp and wide and keen, and now there are tears in your eyes, too. A clawing sadness in your throat. “I-I’m sorry,” Barnes says rapidly, tripping over himself, hands twitching out towards yours.

But there’s miles between you. Thick miles between a soldier and a girl, in a dim bar near last orders. Tears in their eyes and something strange settling between them. 

Too far for him to reach, you think dully. Stomach turning. 

Sergeant Barnes slides his hands back, rubbing against the rounded curve of the edge of the bar. A prickle on your skin – anticipation, nerves. He’s a man holding something back, something weighty in his gaze as those blue eyes come up to meet yours. 

Something special. Something to press and test that gossamer-bond. Barnes leans, forward, then back. Folds his hands together, and then unwraps them. Looks away, and back at you. His breath hitches before he speaks, shoulders rising with the effort of it. The heaviness. 

And when they come – the rush of his words shatters the night, sweeps away your own breath, stutters your heartbeat in your chest. Paints the world with a small, private glow, even just for a moment: 

“Would – no, uh, will you, will you marry me?”


	2. Two

_Mismatched buttons on the dress and oh, don’t the shoulders pinch? But it will have to do. A makeshift marriage, and a make-do wedding. No time for fancier preparations; no money for silk to glide secretly over your hips, a midnight revelation for a husband fast asleep in another bed. Another room. Feigning matrimony in the quietest way, simply going through the necessary motions._

_Love was a signature, a practiced_ Mrs James B. Barnes _. A new name on your tongue; a new soul in your bones._

_And mismatched buttons on your dress._

* * *

He _must_ be drunk. 

Marriage proposals do not volley so blithely between friends, after all. Blue eyes brimming with question, a faint curiosity that belies the crack and crumble of his tone. And yet, somehow, there thrums an intent, decision. 

A deep breath. 

A moment carved in time, a moment in which you savour the note of want -- even though it might be false -- so pretty on the air. A man has just proposed; surely that warrant some slim celebration? 

Logic, of course, weighs more. Thrusts between the happier elegance of Sergeant Barnes’ question, colliding sharply with the edges of those flutters in your stomach, the honey in your veins. The fleeting joy of relishing _him_ , him and his voice. His words. His strange, bewildering, magic words. 

Barnes has only had one drink -- and there’s a steady light in his gaze, though his hands tap a wild dance against the bar. No real indication, then, of a sudden onset of madness, or anything that would make him forget you were just the barmaid -- interactions limited to smiles across the pub, extra drinks, and that one sneaky biscuit. 

An explanation -- you’re in desperate need of one. Rapidly, you sort through the possibilities. Grasping at some sensibility, however thin, just to work out precisely what’s going on. Pushing away those flutters, that trembling joy. 

Perhaps -- perhaps he’d gone somewhere else first, you reason raggedly, stepping away from the bar to collect the breath he’d stolen. Drunk, he _must_ be drunk. Poor man, flinging out his future so haphazardly to any woman in his path. How many other fiancées had he left out on the street? 

But no. Eyes clear, bearing ever steadier, and he stills his fingers under your probing gaze. Folds his hands sombrely, and straightens his back. 

Not drunk. 

Nor is he cruel; your knowledge of him may be scant at best, rooted in the little tidbits he’s willing to unveil only infrequently, but he’s certainly not the type to tease to _this_ degree; not one to play a nasty trick. 

What, then? You don’t even know his name. 

Such thin history between you, not nearly enough knowledge to build even a brave bridge -- and yet you reach out. Something, anything, needs to be said. A question for a question.

* * *

_A twist of flowers, but they’re limp. Paper-thin and lacking colour. Nothing like the frieze of spring you’d once envisioned. Shoes click uncertainly on the sidewalk, and his hand brushes yours, just for a moment. Indecision sits handsomely on his face, the plump curve of his lips flattening into a thin line._

_He decides not to touch you._

_The cab is stuffed with strangers wearing familiar faces. A golden-haired man with a nervous smile; a woman you’ve never met. Lips pursed in scarlet._

_A tremor blooms in your hand, and the cab lurches forward. A stumbling, sputtering advance to the future seems, somehow, fitting._

* * *

_James_. 

An elegant, upright name; skating coolly past your lips as you repeat it. As silky as it is on your tongue, however, it sits rather uncomfortably against the softer contours of him -- bright eyes, half-tucked smile. Self-conscious embarrassment emerging in a huffing chuckle, pillowing his own repetition of his name, as though fearful you hadn’t heard him. 

_Sergeant James Barnes_ is a stranger, a stamp on dog-tags you’ve yet to see. A soldier in a uniform only -- nothing like the boyish laughter of months gone by. Small kindnesses, sweet nicknames. Sergeant James Barnes is a man, a man you perhaps have yet to properly meet, and yet, it seems, a man offering forever on a fragile plate. Ripe for the breaking. 

Hands gripping the edge of the bartop as though to fix himself there, anchor himself to the moment. As though preparing, at any second, to be thrown off-course. 

Trembling faith in his eyes, a flicker of fear in the sudden twitch of his movements. Barnes -- James, not Barnes -- pulls his hands away, resting them in his lap. A retreat, you think dully, watching as he reaches to run one hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands. The smell of rain bursts clean and new and vulnerable, and a flash of a sweeter kind of ache thrums beneath your skin in response -- to the action, perhaps; to the smell. To the notion of your own fingers tracing the same path. 

A flush heats your cheeks. 

“I, uh, I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, voice catching in the single jagged breath he takes between rushed words. “I’m so sorry, I should” -- and he forces himself back, slides from the stool, hands shaking and twisting at his sides, eyes searching wildly for any space that does not involve you -- “my God, I’m sorry. I’ll go. I-I’ll leave you alone.”

Something lingers in his wake; a shape of sadness. Regret. Strong enough to push you forward, propel you to reach out a hand. Not quite far enough to do more than brush a finger against his elbow, but it draws his attention. Brings him to a stop. And Sergeant James Barnes levels the full press and delicious weight of his gaze back upon you. “Wait,” you say, and it’s feather soft. A plea, yes, but not weak in the wanting. “Are you…” 

_Serious? Drunk? Recently gone mad?_

Barnes steps closer, close enough for you to register -- as if for the first time -- the truly elegant curve of his jaw. Shadowed with the dusting of a hopeful beard, and it’s that glimpse of vulnerability -- the reminder of his mother’s sorrow over his shaving -- that reminds you. 

There _is_ something of the boy about him still. A boy doing a man’s task, offering his own hand in marriage, for reasons you cannot yet comprehend. But reasons which deserve to be untangled, all the same. And so you settle on a girl’s question, quiet and wondering: “Are you sure?” 

You bite at the words, a second too late. It’s not what you had intended to say, and yet, somehow, it seems the perfect, fumbling thing -- the only thing. Relief blooming his face, sinking into those curves and bends, into the shy, secret places whence out-of-the-blue marriage proposals come. 

Barnes settles back on the stool, face softening into sadder angles now. “Yeah,” he says gently, leaning forward again. A small nod. “I’m sure. And I mean it. I’m not...I wouldn’t…”

Oh, there’s danger there. A world of possibilities, carved in heartbreak. _I wouldn’t lie_. 

The pub feels off-kilter, gone fuzzy ‘round the edges. “You want to marry me?”

He only knows your first name -- that you’re good at pulling pints and laughing at jokes. That you live in a boardinghouse down the way and that you work two jobs. 

_You_ only have a name. A name, blue eyes, and a crooked grin. 

_Sergeant James Barnes_ \-- it’s certainly not enough to build a life on, scarcely enough to build a friendship on. And yet, and yet -- 

A merry little flame kindles low and bright. Some small pleasure at being wanted, even in this strange, strange way. Knotted therein, a crisp logic reminds you that you _can’t_ say yes -- but then it twists and jerks. Burns hotter with the small incline of his head; the compression of his smile. 

“But” -- the word tastes sour -- “why? Why me? We barely know each other.” Cheeks heated, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes; a faint trace of heartache on your tongue. 

* * *

_Pale and shaking, he rubs at his smooth jaw. Knee jostling in the waiting, and he smiles. A reassuring, wobbly smile, and his leg bobs against yours._

_A chill; it snakes, mean and sly, through your veins. Is this to be the only touch? An accidental brush of his leg against yours? Pulling away with a rueful glance, as though he’s done something wrong?_

_“I think they’ll just be another minute,” the Captain says. Bewildered smile and soft conversation; the woman taps her toes against the tile. Checks her watch._

_Everyone has somewhere else to be._

_“Nervous?” she asks, tweaking a half-hearted blossom in your hand. “It won’t be long now.”_

_You look to your fiancé, to the sad soft velvet of his gaze. Meet him in this challenge, grasp his hand in yours against what may come, though still -- you do not touch._

* * *

And it’s not what you expect, his answer. 

“I told you about my mother,” he says quietly, looking every inch the penitent, looking down at his own hands. “It’s her and my brother and sisters back in Brooklyn. They...they don’t know a lot about what’s going on. What I’m doing. I keep my letters pretty, uh” -- he sighs. Looks for the word. Bites his lip -- “I keep them pretty light, you know? Nothing too detailed.” 

Loving lies. 

Silence steals into the room, and it’s cold. Cold and fraught with darker things, horrors not fit for headlines, and it hunches over the bar beside Barnes. Beside James. His knuckles tighten, and pale, and your own hand itches to touch him. 

But you don’t. Because some pain can’t be halved. 

Instead, you wait. Give him a moment and some expectation, allow him to fumble with the words, to frame the nightmare in a way he feels safe in handing over. And when he gives it to you, it’s soft. 

Barnes chews on the words a moment, chances a look up at you. “If something happens to me, the...the life insurance, that’ll take care of them.” Gentle words, sewn through with dread; your stomach sinks, heart clenching on the way down. “But there’s...there’s something else.” 

A widow’s pension, he explains, voice gone hollow now. “Not much. Soldier dies, the Army’ll take care of his wife. I know that sounds...oh, damn it.”

Eyes shining, he swallows. Swallows the indelicacy, the awkwardness. Takes a deep breath, and the urge to crawl over the bar, to _hold_ him, is so terribly strong. The heat of him against you, lovely words in his ear. Anything to ease this shamed agony, pressing at the seams of him, looking for cracks. “Look,” he says, earnest, desperate. “I know this is out of the blue. I know we don’t know each other very well, but there’s GIs up and down the country right now with wives they’ve known for five minutes.” His lip quavers, voice catching on the edge of this moment, scraping the sides of some faint logic. And he looks down. Back at his hands. 

Anywhere but at you. 

The air is heavy, writhing with spent cigarette smoke, pregnant with the aftermath of this shivering admission, huddling nervously between the two of you. There’s room for you now, to speak, but the words tremble and trip on the way out, at the strangled sound of further curiosity, Barnes looks back up. Swiftly, flintily. “But why...why me?” 

A city full of women. A nation behind him. And he’s asking some girl in a faded boozer. Soap-scrubbed hands and a black dress that chokes her. Soul brimming at the rim of this cracked vessel, desperate to spill over -- 

To change. 

He’s offering it. For reasons that slip together strangely, but sensibly: _I can support you; go down to one job, or none, whatever you want. If something happens, you’ll be taken care of until you get...until you remarry. If I live, we get an annulment, like it never happened._

“And if I die, over there, on a...a mission, then I get to leave something good behind.” 

It drops. Drops like bricks, one at a time: _something good behind_. 

The promise of tragedy swell and sours with the pause, but you’re unsure how to fill it. A man’s offering a brighter future than you’d hoped for, but God -- it’s tinged with grief. 

* * *

_No poetry in the moment, in the_ Yes _and the_ I will _. In the nods, the agreement, the promise. He stumbles over the words, but where’s the lie?_

I give you this ring as a token of my love and friendship. 

_There may not be love, not the candlelit-kisses kind of love, but there’s care. And he wraps that care in gold and slides it onto your finger, and you shake under the weight of expectation, of blood money. He’s framed his death as somehow inevitable, as though it’s a train to come on time. A minute late, a minute early, but coming just the same._

_Have you married a dead man? Does a memory press a faint, soft, soulless kiss against your cheek? Brushing his lips so gently, it’s as though he’s not there at all._

_The Captain smiles; the woman inclines her head, and checks her watch. “Drinks, yes?”_

_Your shoes pinch. Sweat beads down the length of your back, pools in places he will not see, will not touch, will not caress._

_Because you are his widow, not his wife._

* * *

A worn blanket, frayed at the edges, pushed to the end of the mattress in the twisting, burning wake of another nightmare. The room, with all its plaintive furnishings, swims in the dim light of your single lamp. 

_Marry me._

_Think about it._

Those thoughts writhe and tangle; half-formed arguments jostle for the lead, mired fast in a muddier kind of logic. Becoming a wife -- financial security, support. Sergeant Barnes had promised to share his paycheque; his own boarding was provided by the...well, he hadn’t specified precisely _who_ he worked for, but he must have Army quarters. 

“You shouldn’t have to work two jobs,” he’d said kindly. Whispered, really. As though it wasn’t his place to think so, to say so, and truly -- it wasn’t. 

But his words tasted sweet; his reasons, sweeter still. 

“ _Let me take care of you_ ” seemed to underscore each one. An urge to protect, to support. He wore his own death like an overcoat, shrugging into its confines with all the comfort of someone who has worn it a long, long time -- 

“ _If I die, you’ll get a...well, I think it’s like a pension. For war widows. I’ll make it so the life insurance payout still goes to my family, but there would that money, you know, just sitting there. Why not make sure it goes to someone? Someone who deserves it_?” 

Pushing aside two novels, a jar of pens, you make room on the rickety table that serves as a desk. Nothing there is personal -- no photographs, no postcards. Just neat, orderly stacks of anonymity. Save now for the addition, on the back of a pink rent receipt, of a small, self-conscious list. 

_Kind. Trustworthy. Honest._

You’d given the commendations loosely, buoyed mainly by hope. Scrawled them in ink and goodwill, collected them from dozens of evenings of half-friendship and smoke-screened smiles. But now, with a midnight sigh, body weak from tossing and turning, limbs gone fuzzy with the fear of another nightmare, you unfold the friendship. Turn it this way and that. 

Instead of flames, though, tonight you’d dreamed of blue eyes. Bright as fresh ice. A smile unfurling softly; a future dipped in faint gold, held in the palm of his hand. “ _If you were my...my wife,_ ” he’d said, before parting, one tap on the bar and new language curling clumsily from his lips. “ _Things could be different. For both of us. Remember, I’m not asking for a real, uh, marriage. Just...just helping each other._ ” 

Fingers rubbing at your temples, as though willing the tension to burst and bubble and emerge with the force of your own touch. _Helping each other_. Take his name, take half his paycheque; take the blood money when he dies. 

_If_ he dies. 

Some sense of crassness crowds the arrangement, no matter how many sturdy, sensible reasons you’d jotted down earlier. Settling at your table with shivering bones and a heart just shy of breaking. Even Mrs Lester’s bark from downstairs couldn’t disrupt your writing as you trapped, in pen and paper, the contours of some semblance of a future not rooted in a scrub bucket or pinched pennies -- nor dreams gone ragged around the edges. 

A handsome husband -- a friend. A kind man willing to help, to lessen the load. One job, and he’d mentioned training, too. A trade. 

Sergeant James Barnes. 

_Mrs James Barnes_. 

You add that to the list now. Beneath _Financial support_ and _career possibilities (?)_

The chair creaks in warning as you slide backward, leaning over to scan the room. A dresser missing the bottom drawers; shoes that bite and snarl at your feet, tucked under the bed. Dresses and shirts and trousers worn by an army of women before. Not enough blankets. Not enough light. 

A mattress sunken with fifteen years and too many bodies for you to find a spot for yourself. Rent that skirts far too close to unpayable. Belly twisting tight with hunger; hope dwindling with each stroke of the brush against flagstones, against tile, against your flesh. For every inch you clean, day in and day out, you imagine yourself to have lost a layer of skin. Another year. 

There’s the war now. Horror woven into the fabric of the day, a lingering sort of shock at the sight of buildings simply _gone_ ; moments of death and dying frozen in dreams; the whine of the air ride siren threading into the panicked staccato of your heartbeat. Eyes snapping open with your feet stuffed into shoes and the little blue suitcase clutched tight in your hand. 

Marrying a soldier -- it’s not unheard of. Courtships the length and breadth and depth of a weekend pass; girls made mothers before they’d learned their new signatures. War makes hearts beat faster -- it always has. Romance blossoming in the cracks between the bad moments, the worst moments. The abject tragedy of a young man planning his own death; proposing to his own widow. 

Tears squeeze out again, cold this time, and how strange? As though you’ve gone to ice in the time since Sergeant Barnes asked his question, since you declined Mrs Lester’s mushy peas for supper, crunching on a few saltines as you mapped a possible future with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. 

Jane Austen keeping a bemused vigil at your elbow. 

As you crawl back beneath the covers, curl up in a patch of moonlight, resolve quivers shyly in your stomach. Tingles on your skin. A decision that weighs no more than a single syllable, but that holds back a tidal wave. 

Not the stuff of romance novels, but somehow, it seems to fit well -- that once the words form themselves, shape a different tomorrow -- “ _Yes, Sergeant, I’ll marry you_ ” -- they feel warm and right and familiar. As though you were always meant to say them. 

* * *

_No champagne. No cake -- rations won’t allow it, and there hasn’t been enough time to beg or barter for more. Meat pies and pleasantries, ale you’ve poured yourself too many times to count. Tom is in his element; his daughter, Maud, has played bridesmaid today. All snappish and stingy, she’s jealous you’ve got a handsome husband, and not for the first time since this morning, you wish the nice, scarlet-lipped woman had been your witness instead._

_Dizzy love songs, Tom’s daughters and their friends dancing with the Commandos, drunk on a free afternoon. On a few hours of forgetting. But those tender words of adoration slide around loosely, finding no purchase in this playacting._

_A pretty, wistful one blooms, and Dugan calls for a dance. Sets you in the middle of the pub, pushes back another table, as the Englishman shoves your husband at you._

_His hand is hot and unsure; he swallows a pained smile and steps closer, keeping distance enough for friendship to slide between. And it’s warm and it’s soft, but it’s not romance. Not the pretty yearning of the song -- it’s nothing like it should be. But it’s what you have._

_Feet knock together, hands fumble and clasp at all the wrong moments. There’s no rhythm to this soft madness, this gentle, awkward glide into tomorrow, and however many days there are beyond that. The music seems to mock the two of you, as though Vera Lynn knows the wheels turning in your head, the clockwork of stifled desire, bewildered want._

_“You’ll never know,” she sings. And oh, he never will._

* * *

It’s a moment grabbed awkwardly, shared after a long evening of looks that stretched and strained; chewing at your bottom lip as he’d -- quite obviously -- tried to engage with his friends. Laughing at jokes, cheering for another song. Only to settle a restless, curious gaze on you, hard in its impatience. 

Last orders. Tom shuffles to the back, and Barnes slides onto the stool. A perfect mirror of the night before, though there’s whiskey in his glass now, not tea. And one for you. “Did you” -- he swallows. Tries again. “Did you get a chance to think about what I asked?”

You nod, slowly. Carefully. Mind flicking back to that pink rent receipt, to the hope in seven lines. A dawn-lit vigil as you’d paced and paced your bare, mean rom, until Mrs Lester had come beating on the door. 

Yes, you’d thought about it. 

“It’s not the money,” you say with a furtive glance around. “Please, Sergeant, I don’t want you to think that. I would never…” 

The words scatter on the air between you as something brightens in Sergeant Barnes’ face. Sunlight carved into those wan edges, illuminating that boyish levity you’d come to miss these last few times. “Is this -- are you saying yes?” he asks, softly, tenderly. As a lover might. 

There’s no one to hear. No ring. No flowers. No eager friends waiting at the fringes; no hope of giddy kisses -- but there _is_ a kindness in his eyes. An earnest candour to his question. 

A method to this madness. 

Tears sting and sear, but not from misery. More a resigned kind of joy, an admission that, when he reaches one hand forward, palm up, and you nestle yours against his -- this bargain tastes a little like peace. A fragile serving of it, to be sure, but peace all the same. 

The corners of Barnes’ mouth lift as you nod. Choke out a, “Yes, but on one condition.” 

“Anything, sweetheart,” he says firmly. “Anything you want.” 

A deep breath. All cigarette smoke and spent hope, the coppery squeeze of blood from your bitten lip. “You have to promise...you must promise me that this...that being married and the widow’s pension, that you won’t” -- another breath, and your hand slips from his, bracing you against the bar -- “use it as an excuse. An excuse to be rash, I mean. You’ll still try to...to come home.” 

Barnes’ eyes widen, then break. Swim and gleam with tears and he nods, he promises, he pledges, and God, it’s not an “ _I do_ ” or a pair of arms thrown about his neck. It’s not kisses pressed against your skin and roaming hands and a heady tangle of promise. It may not be celebration, but it _is_ relief. 

And a bond in a handshake, in two whiskey-soaked smiles. A marriage made in the wake of last orders. 

* * *

_A new bed, but a cold one. Two pillows, though you don’t need them. Loneliness stretches out beside you, pushing you to the edge of the mattress, and you pace by starlight. Wish away the blazing nightmares, and worse still -- the warm dreams of him. His hand on your waist, his name on your lips. A promise forged against a cold tile floor, in a dress that didn’t fit and flowers that must have bloomed already wilted._

_And he’d danced with you -- uncertainly, cagily. Apology in every step. Shadows in his eyes and questions on your tongue. Cheeks that you wanted to kiss, a jaw you wanted to stroke. An ache forming somewhere low in your belly at the scent of him, the warmth of him, the strength of him. The hope of him._

_Dashed now. Dashed in a front porch goodnight, a squeeze of your hand and a wave. Crawling beneath icy sheets and claiming yourself a shape against the mattress, a place to call your own. Checking to be sure the little blue suitcase was safely by the door, practicing an escape._

_By soft lamplight, you sink into new memory, disappointment curdling in your stomach. A cold wedding night, blankets tight around your hips and your shoulders, mouth unkissed and soul aching._

_Wanting._

_But he’s given you all that he can -- provided a kinder home, a sweet if distant dance. A respectable wedding and a goodnight smile. That his arms aren’t around you seems a faint tragedy indeed, but at least you have what he can provide. What he can do. What he can give. And you have his promise -- that he’ll try to come home. Won’t use this_ “something good” _as a death warrant._

_That he’ll live. If not for a wife, then for himself._


	3. Three

A widow’s bed, that’s what you have. Cool sheets and arms by your side, dreams that linger in softer places. Waking to lonely dawns, spilling blush and sad against the second pillow. The useless one. 

Days unfold with new regularity, mornings empty save for volunteering down at the Women’s Institute, where you label jam jars and type long lists of names. Write letters to evacuated children, to wives left behind. Across the sea, the war worsens. Hope grows slimmer. 

There are rumours of braver women -- women shot and women buried, all in the name of liberty and honour. A type of courage seems so many threadbare miles from your own: marriage as resistance, as morale. 

In the evenings, you search for lightness in your husband’s eyes, any sign that this marriage has changed him. Made him brighter, more hopeful. Eased the burden of death and fear and guilt even a little -- but he gives you smiles. Soft words.

And in those moments, there’s the courage -- it may of a gentler brand than hiking through enemy territory or smuggling supplies over dangerous borders, but it is your own. Polite conversation over a bar with the man you married in case he died. 

Tonight is one such night. Dipped in spring velvet, a strange warm breeze rolling in from the river to snake up the streets and alleyways. Brings out a blue dress, with shorter sleeves, and a smile brighter than usual. As though with summer coming, there can’t be a war. 

But where you’d hoped for a smile of his in return, you have only a heavy blue gaze, unruly stubble. A weary fumbling; a sigh. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, in that delightful American way of his. The phrase has come to define the language of this marriage, allowing you to slide within the easier confines of surface-skimming interactions. 

The problem, of course, is simply that _Hi, sweetheart_ is not enough to contain the twisting tumble of emotions that accompanies the smooth joy of Sergeant Barnes’ -- no, _James_ ’ -- voice. His mere arrival -- the attention he pays, the way he anchors himself to your life in small, subtle ways. Books you’ve been reading. Millie, the girl across the hall. If the rent has come through. How your morning unfolded. A tender sort of playacting. 

Clad in that blue uniform,hair swirled and styled. Every inch the handsome young soldier, crooked smile and bright eyes. Rumpled tonight. Unkempt. An unfamiliar rasp in his voice, as though recently tugged from sleep. 

“Hello, James,” you say. Clunks out like a stuck drawer, a wince on the edges. A wife’s greeting should be soft and silky; downy with knowing. “Are you...can I get you anything?”

“No.” He bites at his bottom lip, looks anywhere but at you. “I, uh, I’m leaving in the morning.” 

“Leaving?”

His jaw tightens. “Uh, a mission. I-I can’t tell you where, I’m sorry. But we’ll be gone for at least a month -- at this point, that’s what it looks like.” 

_A month_. 

A month of no quiet evening companionship, no conversation. A month of assuming the worst, wondering if you had any real right to fear so. A paperwork husband, that’s what you have. Would the grimmest telegrams even come to you? 

That’s a question you can’t bring yourself to ask, though the bite of it stings deep. Somewhere you’re not yet willing to delve, that soft, sore space of uncertainty -- widow or wife? 

The night stretches cruel and hard around the two of you, all sharp edges and unsaid pain -- it’s a far, far better thing to simply say _goodnight_ , to wish him well. To stare, tears brimming, at the space left behind, as though the air itself had parted around him. Keeping him safe. Special. 

And somehow, even distantly, _yours_. 

On the heels of a soft heartbreak, one you may not be entitled to, James turns. Blue eyes brighter than you’ve seen them before, nibbling on his bottom lip. “Would you...I mean...if I wrote to you, would you...would you write back?”

Not a love song, nor a train station kiss. But you’ll take it, take it with a nod and a shy twitch of your lips -- close to a smile, but he turns before it blooms. 

* * *

From across the Channel, _Dear Sweethearts_ burst softly. Small joy in brown envelopes, tender and in need of better nurturing, but it’s something. Easier to fall in love by paper and pen, those brief missives that leave you wondering what he meant to put between the lines. 

James has a neat hand, but his voice doesn’t come through. As though somewhere amidst the sturdy letters, he’d changed his tone. Carved a new language in stiff words and observations about the weather. Here and there, words had been blacked out; a wild storm of stamps and addresses tattooing the envelopes. 

Dark mystery soaked into every page, the question of whether or not he truly is _fine_ as he often promises, or if the weather really was _OK_ as he attempts to reassure you. 

Now and then, pen in hand, there flickers a half-temptation to drip your own dreams across the page, share with your husband the increasingly panicked visions that wrench you from shallow sleep. A softer bed and a smoother life have -- on the contrary, it seems -- given your mind lease to wander back to grimmer days. To streets cracked wide and flames licking bright at an ink-black sky. Drip-drip-dripping gore and tragedy, but just another London night. Such a long time ago. 

A wife, you thought, ought to be able to write to her husband about such things. _Dear darling, I had a nightmare last night. Wish you were there beside me_ \-- but no. As many nights as you twist awake, to that second pillow -- it doesn’t matter. War or peace, you’ll never wake to James beside you. 

The letters you send back at first sound clumsy and unsure. Stiff at times, and painfully formal at others. But eventually, a new voice emerges. Braver than the one you were able to muster in the pub, or the boardinghouse kitchen; still not yet as natural as you could hope for, but character tip-toes in. The occasional joke, too.

You gossip about Millie’s beaus -- American GIs who come to choke down Mrs Bridges’ egregiously-strong coffee (she makes much better tea) and heavy scones, holding Millie’s pretty hand for a few hours each evening. 

_One fellow_ , you write carefully -- _asked about any other prospects down the block, and Millie came up with the best prank: she told him all about the gorgeous Marguerite, a French film star who’d escaped Paris rolled up in a rug. You know the one by the fire in Mrs B’s sitting room? He’s fallen terribly in love with her beauty and charm and has, according to M’s newest sweetheart, been asking all over London for the made-up film titles Millie gave him!_

You can only hope he’ll laugh, smile. Pass around that part of the letter to the other Commandos. Grin at the cheek of his wife, echo softly her parting. Braver, this time -- not yet brave enough to stroke _love_ against the page, of course, but a _All my best wishes_ and the pretty scrawl of your name. A world away from perfume-scented notepaper and lipstick kisses dotting the edges. 

But that’s fine. 

Because he starts sending you stories, too -- relates what he can of their movements through Europe. Always vague, never even daring to drop even a coded hint. Instead, he talks about a goat he made friends with on a mountaintop; a little girl who laughed at his “pretty hair.” Awful food. Better food. 

Poised for tragedy in the days between news, life starts to wear a different pattern. Even more humdrum than before, in the early weeks as his wife, without the added small thrill of seeing him walk through the pub doors, shoulders weighted with war, but a smile lifting just for you. WI a few afternoons a week; typing classes every day. 

While other girls and wives at the secretarial college gush about their handsome men, giggling behind their hands about bedroom secrets and speaking in a language you do not yet understand -- you have _this_ pleasure: a battered hatbox of letters, a marriage held in paper and stamps. 

_Dear Sweetheart_. 

_Best, James._

And then one day -- one sinking, stony afternoon, sky split wide with a winter’s rain, in summer -- there’s another kind of letter. 

Bit with desperation, with a shaky hand. _Sweetheart_ , he says, with no preamble -- _had a close call. Thinking of you. Hope you’re well. Write when you can. I’m safe. We’ll be coming home later than planned. Yours, James._

_Yours, James_. 

And though there’s fear tracing the page trembling in your hand -- though the small roof over the front stoop has begun to leak, running black tears against wet paper. But are they yours, or the sky’s?

A cup of tea and trembling fingertips, torn between guilt and fear and a sick, slithering delight flickering shamefully. But _Yours, James_ sounds so sweet, even nestled as it is within his terse fear. His reassurance. 

There’s little news of the Commandos’ missions until after the fact, you’ve learned this well. Their success depends on subterfuge, on getting in and out. It means that while other wives can keep up with their husbands’ travels through headlines and newsreels, James’ wellbeing remains mostly a mystery -- until he chooses to share it. 

And it’s this -- these tender scraps of news, of marriage, clinging resolutely to the tiny hope in that cramped hand. That he’d reached out to you -- wanting you to know he was safe. He hadn’t, you realize, uncapping your pen, had to say anything at all. There is no way for you to understand the real risks he was taking, as Sergeant James Barnes. 

But _your_ James -- he’d wanted you to know. And he needs your comfort. Why else would he write so?

_Dear James,_

_I’m relieved to hear you’re well and safe…_

* * *

Summer slips by in burgeoning friendship, in growing familiarity. James returns to London for an extended furlough, something about reevaluation. Long hours at headquarters, but he comes to you fresh and shaved. Wearing civilian clothes that hint at another man, a softer man. A man who had seen far, far less of the darker things in the world. 

Folded at Mrs Bridges’ kitchen table, as she makes not-so-subtle hints about letting him up into your bedroom -- “you are _married_ , after all!” -- drinking endless cups of sugarless tea. Smiling at shy jokes, brushing fingertips against a plate of biscuits. Half-shattered and stale. 

He goes away again by August, comes home with the creeping tendrils of an eager autumn. Buys you a new coat and walks the park paths in silence. Hands shaking with the urge to pry, to coax, to play the wife. 

Or better yet, to _be_ the wife. 

To unburden your own trembling, heavy hands, share the load of those hot, sickly nightmares. Twice that September, James asks how you slept, eyes scanning a strained face, an ache in your own gaze. And twice that September, you swallow the truth. Taste it bitter and bright at the back of your throat, and move forward, shoving the load deeper, ‘til it simmers in some distant vein. 

Because your pain, however, sharp, is not his to carry. 

An October afternoon, months of marriage now, and he hasn’t touched you. Not since the wedding, and a forced dance to the saddest song you’ve ever heard. 

But there’s this: walks in the park, evenings at the pub. His sister’s name, you learn, is Rebecca. There’s a diner in Brooklyn he and Steve Rogers would frequent, with the best lemon pie he’d ever had, before the war. “Steve and I would save up, when we first started working,” he says softly. “For a cup of coffee and a slice of pie each, on a Sunday afternoon. Maybe take a girl dancing the night before, but Sunday afternoons were always easy, you know?”

He likes Artie Shaw, and Billie Holiday. Chocolate cake, when he can get it. 

It’s simple to sink into the more obvious, surface habits of marriage, but every now and then, he dares to delve a little deeper. 

A rain-streaked evening, he knocks at the door. Hair curling damp and innocent about his face, and James runs a few fingers through it. Accepts Mrs B’s mug of tea, musters a hesitant smile for the giggling legion of boarders -- Millie flashes you a wink; Trudy a smile -- and James leans forward across the table, covers both your hands with one of his, warm from the cup, from intention. 

“I know you applied to the Home Office for a job,” he says softly. “And that’s great. Really. And I don’t...I don’t…”

James swallows. Looks down to where his hand touches yours, bites his lip when -- bolder than you’ve ever been before -- you shift your fingers, flip your palm. Meet him in a gentle, loose embrace. A pantomime of love, really. “Maybe it’s not my place,” he says finally. Firmly. “But I was asking around...where I work, with the Strategic Scientific Reserve. And there’s a job for you. A-a typist’s job. You’d have good hours, only the day shift. And the p-pay is...well, you wouldn’t have to work at the pub anymore.”

A squeeze. Involuntary, and he pulls his hand away, leaving you to wonder if he’d done it, or you. Clears his throat and takes a sip of tea. “You’d be near where I work,” he adds, words tumbling out in a self-conscious rush. “Nice people there, too. And I...I’d feel better. When I’m away. Knowing you were someplace safe...safer. But it’s only if you want it, sweetheart. I-I would never tell you what to do. I just wanted to...to help.” 

Is there love pressed between the words? Affection? You’d talked about a new job with him, many times. The typing course and a few select secretarial qualifications had opened up some opportunities. Opportunities beyond the pub. 

But _this_. 

This was a husband’s concern, wasn’t it? A conversation between a husband and wife, ensconced at a too-tiny card table, weak tea and firm resolve. Dressing gown pulled high and a future knit strangely together, one piece at a time. 

Something pretty flickers down deep, brighter than the doubt, the fear -- the trembling anxiety that there will be more nightmares tonight. Replaced, for this brief, shining moment, by James’ care, and the warmer prospect of this job, as he goes on to explain it, consulting a page of notes he’d taken during a conversation with the head clerk. He pushes this across the table, downing his tea as you read. Excellent hours, astounding pay. You’ll have to sign the Official Secrets Act, of course, but that’s everywhere now. A background check, an interview. 

And a letter of recommendation. “I…”

“Steve took care of it,” James says with a smile. “You can have two, if you want. Agent Carter -- from our...from the...from when we got married, remember? She’ll sign one, too.”

A smile curls out, and you nod. Eagerly, watching your delight reflect in his face. A smile for a smile, and a longing to hug him, to embrace him in gratitude -- that can be suppressed. Because he _thought_ of you, he’s _thinking_ of you. He wants something good for you -- just as much good as you want for him. 

“ _Thank you_ ” doesn’t seem quite enough. Not for this bonding of aid and support, of him writing out his fears and reassurance, of him wanting you safe and cared for.

_Yours, James_. 

Parting at the front door, he peeks out at the dwindling downpour. Shakes an umbrella and glances over his shoulder to say goodnight, and then freezes as you step closer. An impulse, an instinct, almost a dream -- you step forward and graze your lips gently, briefly against his stubbled cheek. A brush more than a true kiss, but he fumbles with the doorknob just the same. Chokes out a _goodnight_ , and melts into the dark. Leaving you with two fingers pressed to your own mouth, shock and awe and heat melding sharply in the pit of your stomach. The deep of your bones. Wondering if you’ve just sealed heartbreak or gratitude. 

A widow’s bed, that’s what you have. Cool sheets and arms by your side, dreams that linger in darker places, now. And though the night stretches long and lonely, the dawn spilling blush and sad, you fall asleep that night with the second pillow clutched against your chest, and the taste of James, however faint, upon your lips. 


End file.
